Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (4 page)

From his elevated view, José watched the police car leave the otherwise-empty parking lot. Turning to his brother, he said, “I have a feeling our friend Cunningham is not going to take no for an answer.”

“Is there anything we can do?” offered one of the deck hands.

“No, thank you. You have done enough already, my friends.”

After seeing his coworkers to the door and then watching them leave via the stairwell, José turned to his brother and announced, “We had better make sure the guns are clean and ready.”

“Do you really think it will go that far?” the sibling questioned.

Nodding his head, the older brother answered, “Perhaps, perhaps not, but we need to be ready regardless.”

Accepting José’s logic, the younger brother strolled to the closet and quickly removed the two Remington shotguns. The hunting pieces had been discovered at the bungalow. After quickly unpacking the weapons, the two men began counting the remaining ammunition. It didn’t take them long.

“Go with my wife to the market tomorrow,” José said. “Take what little cash we have and anything of value from this apartment that will fit in your pocket. We need bullets.”

Mr. Cunningham’s temper and disgust simmered throughout the night and into the next day. When he saw José’s wife and children utilizing the sauna, along with the courtesy towels, he finally lost control.

Finding the head of security in his small office, the facilities manager asked the question that had percolated in his brain since law enforcement had failed to evict the squatters. “Is your staff capable of removing those hobos?”

“We will have to be armed,” replied the confident ex-cop. “Like everybody else, I’m sure our uninvited guests have weapons. I won’t ask my men to carry a club into a gunfight.”

Cunningham had expected as much. While he was a nonviolent individual, the need for firearms and security was not beyond his sphere of knowledge. “Do your men have the personal weapons necessary to do the job?”

“Of course,” the security chief responded. “My guys are all survivors of the downfall and are not strangers to violence.”

In a way, Cunningham regretted hearing the anticipated response to the question. Weighing the ramifications of forcing the squatters out via the barrel of the gun, he eventually sighed and said, “See to it then. I want those people out of here… today.”

After watching his employee rise and move off to organize his subordinates, Cunningham stood and contemplated the potential results of his decision. Ocean Towers had originally been constructed as a retreat for the ultra-wealthy to escape a variety of personal demons and public pressures. The tenants spent millions of dollars of their hard-earned money to purchase privacy, discretion, and a refuge away from prying eyes of the press, competitors, shareholders, and other monkeys that often rode on the backs of the super-affluent.

Now, Cunningham felt that the role of the luxury building had changed.

Ocean Towers and its restoration were an experiment. Rather than a haven of privacy, the building was now a port where those of substance could safely dock their investments, family, and pride. It was a protected harbor from the storm of anarchy that still raged across much of the planet.

If the reestablishment of Ocean Towers failed, it would be a setback for society as a whole. While a significant undertaking, the cost of restoring the building to its original glory was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the resources that would be required to bring a manufacturing plant or oil rig back into production.

Everyone involved understood that the complex was much like the cavalry forts in the old West. Constructed in the heart of wild, untamed territory, those military installations had become far more than a bastion of safety. Commerce, trade, and settlements had thrived in the proximity of those early, wooden castles. If Ocean Towers were overrun, the ramifications would run deeper and wider than just a few wealthy men having wasted their money.

If the fort held, however, prosperity was sure to follow.

Never a man to beat a dead horse, Cunningham left the security office comfortable with his decision and confident in the path of future events. As he made his way through the halls adorned with quality art, tasteful decorations, and general atmosphere of wealth, the man in charge of Ocean Towers felt satisfaction for the first time since the interlopers had been discovered.

The afternoon passed quickly. Despite its lack of occupants, the luxury complex required a significant portion of Cunningham’s day be devoted to forms, paperwork, and a host of small, nagging details. By the time the chief of security was knocking on his door, the sun was low in the western sky.

“I have gathered six of my best men,” the security honcho began. “We are ready if you are.”

For some reason, the size of the team surprised Cunningham. “Why do you anticipate needing such a large group?”

“The smart way to do this is to use overwhelming force. That and speed of action will be the key to ending this quickly and hopefully without bloodshed. If he’s facing six men, our squatter may think twice about starting any trouble. In the end, isn’t that what we want?”

Cunningham pondered his employee’s logic for a moment before commenting. “You are the expert. We’ll go with your recommendation.”

The party of armed men, along with Cunningham in tow, made their way to the third floor. None of them spoke a word as they proceeded down the hall, all of the volunteers carrying long guns as well as having secondary sidearms strapped to their belts or legs. Cunningham knew nothing about firearms or fighting… but had to admit that their display of weaponry was impressive.

After motioning his boss to stay back and out of the line of potential gunfire, the security chief stayed to the side of the 3C’s entrance and began slamming his fist against the door.

“Building security! Please open up!”

No one breathed while they waited for the answer. After what seemed an eternity, the chief glanced back at Cunningham and said, “You don’t suppose they wised up and left already?”

Shaking his head, Cunningham whispered, “We wouldn’t be so lucky.”

Again, the door was rattled, the pounding sending an echo down the hall. “Building security! Please open the door, or we will force our way in!”

There was no answer.

Shaking his head, the team leader motioned for his men to prepare for a breach. Long ago, before reaching mandatory retirement age, he’d been a cop and knew the techniques by heart.

Bracing himself against the opposing wall, the heaviest fellow gathered his wits and took a deep breath. He then launched a vicious kick, his boot impacting just above the doorknob.

Ocean Towers had been constructed of quality materials. That fact became evident to the men gathered in the hall as their teammate bounced off the door as if he had just tried to topple a concrete wall with a pillow.

With another lung full of air, the heavy security man again launched himself at the barrier. The result was as disappointing as the first attempt.

Slightly embarrassed and rubbing a now-throbbing knee, he began looking around for anything he could use as a battering ram. Exchanging a look of frustration with one of his team members, he pointed to a nearby firebox, indicating the ax hanging inside.

Before he could speak, a rustle came from behind the door, immediately followed by an angry voice. “Go away! I have a gun! I will shoot!”

“Don’t make this hard on yourself,” countered the head of security. “Think about your family. There’s no sense in anyone getting hurt today.”

There was a pause on the other side before José’s voice rang strong. “This is my home! I will die to protect it. Wouldn’t all of you fight to keep your family safe?”

For a moment, Cunningham thought that the squatter’s argument might actually have an effect on his security team.

His concerns, however, were unfounded. Whether it was professionalism, competition, or a case of ego-driven bravado, the private police force seemed unaffected by the pleading from within.

The team leader motioned for another large gent to join him. Whispering a quick count to three, both of the hefty fellows threw their weight against the opening. The frame began to give, small cracks of splintered wood appearing around the knob.

As the duo of human battering rams gathered themselves for another strike, the door exploded outwards, showering the security team with wooden shrapnel. The man assisting the security chief grasped his chest and howled in pain as the 12-gauge deer slug tore through his lung.

That first shot was followed almost immediately by a second, and then a third, the lead slugs ripping and tearing through wood, plaster, and flesh.

Bedlam erupted in the hall.

Whether it was the sight of two coworkers withering in pain or the splatters of bloody tissue running down the wall, the remaining breachers fell back.

Only a few seconds passed before they regrouped, some motivated by pride, others wanting revenge. With faces flushed with rage, the remaining men moved forward with weapons ready at the shoulder. One brave soul kicked hard at the now-weakened door, sending it flying inward while at the same time firing several blinds shot through the opening.

Evidently, Mr. Harrington was a man who appreciated greenery. When José and his family had moved in, they had discovered over a dozen large potted plants throughout the expansive flat, the shriveled, brown foliage succumbing from a lack of water. But the remaining potting soil had another use.

José was barricaded in the corner of the living room, secure behind a heavy chest, each drawer filled with dirt. It was an extremely effective bullet stop.

Surviving the apocalypse had not only provided José with a basic knowledge of ballistics, but the normally-peaceful father had also developed a certain sense of rhythm as applied to gunfights. He instinctively knew when to stay low and when it was time to rise and use his weapon.

He was also well aware that the men in the hallway could only enter his residence in a single file. Breaching experts often referred to this as a “fatal funnel,” such narrow obstacles neutralizing the deployment of their superior numbers. It was one-on-one, defender versus attacker, whenever such physical barriers came into play.

José rose from behind his wooden mini-fortress just as the first invader appeared in the now-shattered doorway. His shotgun sang its song, a deadly spread of 00 buckshot stopping the assaulter’s forward momentum before the poor fellow could acquire a target.

Three times the corridor shooters attempted to enter his home. The end result was two more bodies partially blocking the threshold while the thick carpeting ran with a crimson hue.

Not only did José understand the concept of a fatal funnel, but years of surviving on the mean streets had also provided him with a basic grasp of small unit tactics.

After hearing the first exchange of shots, the defender’s brother gathered himself and then sprang from a fire exit door. Blindsiding the Tower’s team, his presence added the critical element of surprise.

Neither as coolheaded nor as experienced as his older brother, the sibling’s first shot veered high.

Frantically working the duck gun’s pump, his second blast caught one of the attackers full in the upper thigh, sending the man groaning to the carpet in a corkscrew motion.

Now the remaining team members forgot about José and his barricaded position, their weapons snapping around to address the new threat to their rear.

With no cover, and slow to work his weak, nervous limbs on the shotgun’s pump, the sibling went down in a hailstorm of gunfire from the assaulters.

The small victory gave momentum to the survivors in the hall and they began firing wildly into unit 3C. The impacting rounds shattered glass, punched through walls, and peppered José’s cover with such a ferocity that he was forced to keep low.

During the barrage of incoming rounds, it dawned on 3C’s lone defender that his brother’s weapon was no longer firing from the hall. He could only assume the worst.

The thought of losing another brother, combined with the hailstorm of lead, choking smoke, and unbearable noise caused something to snap in José’s mind.